


Endurance

by Keturagh



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Edging, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Nerdiness, Scholarly Debate, Sub Solas, Teasing, Top Dorian Pavus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 18:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11697066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: Dorian won't let Solas get away with casual superiority. Not to be outdone in their academic spats, Dorian makes sure that Solas is perfectly well distracted the next time he presents his conclusions on his latest research.





	Endurance

Solas said it with great dignity, his chin poised aloft, his tone light as he looked up to Dorian and tried, fruitlessly, to pull his arms apart.

“I’m stuck.”

Dorian chuckled. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Solas admitted again. “Stuck.”

“Is that so?” Dorian said. He could hear the air of vague stiffness in Solas’ tone, carefully constructed. Solas eyed Dorian thoughtfully. There was a suspended moment of uncertainty between the both of them: had one said something the other did not enjoy? Was this going to fall apart as quickly as it had started?

_Kaffas, I’ve no idea what to say to the bastard that won’t pique. Easily-riled, for all he adopts such grand composure._

Solas sniffed, his expression imperious, and Dorian caught the way his fingers were moving behind his back to double-check that Dorian hadn’t placed the knots too close to his grasp after all.

Dorian snorted rolled his eyes. _Ass. Well, if must needs be._

“Stuck seems to suit you, at that,” Dorian said. He moved behind the chair and tied the end of the rope around the end of the bedpost, so that the elven mage under his care was arranged like a moored vessel: the bedpost served as hardpoint, the length of the rope taut as it traversed the length of the room and wrapped around both of Solas’ lean wrists. A straightforward pattern cradled Solas’ elbows behind his back, designed in such a way as to restrict his movement quite handily. A simple box tie. The rope was rough-made, and Solas savored the harsh feel of fibers biting his skin.

“And why is that?” Solas tested the ropes again, privately distrustful of Dorian’s supposed ‘perfect proficiency’ with this art. Yet the lines held him; he stopped struggling with a displeased huff and tipped his head back to spy the man idling next to the bedstand, shuffling lazily through a stack of books.

“It suits you because,” Dorian said, deciding on a tome and paging it open, “you revel in being stuck. And I don’t mean physically. Oh, you might wander, but I’ve heard you arguing with the Bull, and with our prickly girl Sera. You’re not much for changing your mind, are you? You accuse Vivienne of much the same, yet ‘unimaginative’ best describes you, doesn’t it? Stuck.” He shut the book, prim, certain, and sent a wickedly wry grin over his shoulder towards Solas, sitting there fuming. “Let the outside reveal the man inside, I say.”

Solas’ stare shifted to something level, almost wounded. “I seem to remember our arguments tend not to resolve in your favor,” he snapped, but Dorian was in his element now and only laughed.

“Mm, well, that may be so,” he allowed. “But at least I’ve my illustrious homeland to blame. Relatively shit relatives, as it were.”

Solas’ gaze softened, and they were both quiet for a moment.

“But you know,” Dorian said quickly, turning away, and Solas heard how his tone was a little rough, “all about my feelings on that.” Supposedly meaning his homeland, his rejection of slavery - but tonight, those words meant more.

Solas didn’t need Dorian to say anything more. This room in the tavern at Redcliffe was their sanctuary for the night: just the two of them. They need not invite all of Tevinter, or any version of ancient Arlathan, for that matter, into their bedroom tonight.

“Dorian -”

“Besides,” Dorian turned with that easy, lying smile and strode towards Solas again, holding up the book he’d chosen with enthusiasm. “I’ve no intention of allowing you mastery of the battlefield tonight.”

Solas smirked, and the look was one Dorian had come to associate with the low, somnolent cattishness Solas seemed able to summon with a mere smile. It wasn’t a look he’d seen Solas give anybody until… until, well. Until he’d started giving it to Dorian. It was a look with decidedly one goal: to disarm him at once, and make his only desire to curl up in Solas’ estimable arms and go to sleep - to dream of mischief in the Fade all night, no doubt.

Dorian dropped the book from a height. The _wham_ when it hit the floor in truth startled both of them, though only Solas jumped. Dorian was intent on keeping his composure.

_Theatrics,_ Solas thought, exasperated and squirming. “Was that necessary?”

“I’m certain you could tell me, my very-stuck friend,” Dorian answered smoothly, gesturing to the book. It had landed on the floor just far enough away for reading the cover to be a trial for one tied to a bedpost.

Solas rolled his eyes and leaned forward. His arms were raised by the tension in the ropes. The line strained and he balanced against it, just to be able to lean forward far enough to read the title.

“ _Crystals of Inestimable Strength: Four Views, One Truth, Diatribes of Veminloc._ ” Solas snorted and sat back heavily, his pants riding low as he leaned back. “Absolute nonsense.”

“Ah, so you have said,” Dorian eyed the line of light, red hair just above the band of Solas’ ragged breeches. He turned to the window, pulling the shutters in. “And yet, since our last conversation I have had opportunity to expand on some of the experiments outlined in the third diatribe. And now that I have you here and quite - well, captive, I suppose, or at least unable to cover your ears and sing _la la la_ -”

“Leave it open,” Solas said, and when Dorian turned back to him, his gaze was intense. “Leave it open,” he repeated, softer - just a question, nothing more.

Yet it meant something.

Dorian pulled the shutters closed, shaking his head as he did so, and took up his pronouncement with the same airy stride as before, as though Solas had not interrupted. “Experiments, I’ve done a few. And the results of these experiments have proven interesting.”

“Decisive?”

“I said _interesting, kaffas,_ must everything be to the utmost with you?”

Solas snorted. “An ironic accusation. And in this, yes. Unfounded and foolhardy magical contemplations have more often than not led to cataclysmic threats to the Fade. Is this not so? I’ve learned enough reason for my rigor, _as should you._ ” Solas watched Dorian step over the book and pull two more lengths of rope from the pocket of his silk robe. His knees fell apart reflexively to welcome Dorian standing there.

Dorian chuckled. “Sometimes you’re almost as bad as these southern Chantry hens, Solas. You fear I’ve run wild with magic all my life? Funny sort of anxiety, for an apostate.”

“It is not freedom I fear, but hubris, if the topic you are about to broach is what I suspect it is.”

“Making assumptions?”

“Am I wrong?”

“That depends entirely on what you suspect, I suppose, but yes - this is the matter of red lyrium again.”

“ _Fenedhis_ Dorian, what have I warned you!?”

“And I’m to abandon the pursuit of this field solely based on your underestimation of my capabilities in handling the substance?”

“No, you’re to abandon this field solely because I have asked you to, and because - _ah!”_ Solas’ head dropped back and he stuttered out a choked, abrupt moan as Dorian’s fingers gathered under his testes. It was the first intimate touch he’d felt in weeks, including by his own hand. His whole body surrendered immediately, his knees dropping open even further, his tongue wetting his lips as he panted and groaned. Dorian stroked, again and again, up and over the rapidly rising tent at his crotch.

“We don’t do things _‘just because you asked’_ tonight, Solas,” Dorian pointed out with good humor. “You like this, I see. But undoubtedly you were going to, once again, draw some comparison to Alexius’ experiments with time magic?” It was confirmation enough when Solas grimaced through his lusty haze. “The two are incomparable,” Dorian dismissed. “What we don’t know about time magic is best left unknown; what we don’t know about red lyrium might very well kill us all.”

“And this mad - _ah_ \- rambling crystal wielder, Veminloc - _nhf_ … He’s to be our savior and salvation?” Solas tipped his hips up eagerly into Dorian’s hand, shameless in his desire to get closer, the press of Dorian’s touch over his pants ardent and long-awaited.

Dorian grinned and pulled slowly at the band of Solas’ breeches, watching the swollen cock strain forward with the tug of the fabric and then slap back against his belly when he pulled the pants off. Solas whimpered as Dorian moved his touch away, his cock lolling to one side as he writhed.

“Not at all,” Dorian said. “All the brilliant parts have been discovered by myself. Naturally. Veminloc was a charlatan, but I’ve a mind he stole the basis of his theories from the dwarves. And so in cross-referencing Orzammar texts and some old journals supposedly recovered by the very Hero of Ferelden....” He caressed down Solas’ thighs, maddeningly shapely and often a subject of his thoughts: primarily, how they rippled and bounced when Dorian thrust into him.

Handling them like idols, Dorian wrapped the two last lengths of rope around Solas’ thighs high up on his crotch, near enough to his testes to rub roughly if Solas wasn’t careful to keep his legs spread wide. For good measure, Dorian tied off the ends of these ropes around the chair legs, securing the knots with a tug.

Solas seemed to struggle for a moment, and when his silence went on for a beat too long Dorian glanced back at him. “Alright?”

“Of course,” Solas snapped, but Dorian could tell when Solas was fighting off a cloudy surge of pining and pain. He unknotted the right thigh and loosened the wrap, then checked in.

“Better?”

Solas nodded mutely, and Dorian finished off the tie. Then he stood, leaned over him, and clasped Solas’ chin in his hand. This kind of show was very rare between them. But if Dorian had to play mindreader again…

“You hurt, you tell me, or we stop right now,” Dorian warned. “I’ve known walking corpses who communicate better than you, _vishante kaffas,_ so help me, I _will_ leave you here.”

He wouldn’t leave, Solas knew. Or if he tried to, Solas wouldn’t let him, not after the day Dorian had had today. Not knowing that he would inevitably end up downstairs at the tavern, nursing a bottle and guilt-ridden, wondering if he should steal a horse and gallop down every road in the Hinterlands to find the man who’d broken his heart again and again. To reconcile with him? To kill him? Solas couldn’t say, and did not want to find out. Neither option would heal the pain behind Dorian’s eyes. No, he couldn’t let him leave. Solas struggled to regain his presence of mind and acknowledged to himself, sternly, that he should have said something about the tightness of the rope. He liked the pain… but that kind of pain made him sloppy, desperate and permissive.

The choice of when to use _that_ pain belonged, tonight, to Dorian.

Solas nodded, genuinely apologetic.

“Understood,” he answered. “But not -” he added quickly, as Dorian smiled and righted himself, going to retrieve a second chair, “how the bathing of a crystal in liquid red lyrium would be of any reasonable use to the Inquisition. The magic of the Blight invites danger. It can’t be trusted, Dorian!”

Dorian set the chair near to Solas and when he sat, his robe slouched from his shoulders in an intentionally rakish way that made Solas want to bite and suck his smooth, soft neck until it was covered with his marks.

“So you _have_ read Veminloc’s work!” Dorian grinned and teased his touch up towards Solas’ erection. Solas flexed, his length aching, to press his cock closer to Dorian’s hand. “Yes, his little lyrium baths for the crystals. He wore them as jewelry. First an amulet, then a belt, then bracelets, rings - all quite garish, in the end, I’m certain.” Solas dropped his gaze pointedly to the solid gold rings adorning Dorian’s fingers. Dorian flicked his hand dismissively. “These are impeccable pieces from noted designers. No, it is not the same. And the thought of you making any such commentary is, frankly, loathsome.”

Solas had to laugh at that, easy, snorting as he breathed in. Dorian loved making him laugh, always privately rejoicing to see those stern lips break into a secretive smile. _There was probably something unhealthy in that,_ he mused offhand, _the thrill of making a tight, disapproving man smile no matter how much he started out hating me._ But then Solas looked over to Dorian with the amused quirk still bright his grin, and his eyes were so gentle with… with something. Dorian lost where his thoughts had been going, ducking his gaze down to where he stroked the rope that held Solas’ thigh. It was a gentle tease.

Solas shook his head, his expression tightening with worry. “And the crystal baths. Your experiments - tell me you haven’t been wearing the stuff, Dorian? Please?”

“I’m not stupid.” Dorian scoffed. “Try and think, my fellow.” He grinned and taunted his fingers up Solas’ straining, thick arousal. The light touch was enough to draw a bead of moisture to Solas’ wet tip.

“Think,” Dorian challenged him again.

And then, to make following this instruction as _interesting_ as possible, Dorian opened the pot of oily cream in his other pocket, coated his fingers, and then reached back and grasped Solas’ cock in hand. He started pumping it vigorously, Solas’ head dropping back, his lips parting on a moan, his body shaking with need.

“Well? Do you cede?” Dorian teased. “Do you want me to give you the whole theory, or have you yet brains left in your lust-addled head to figure out what I’ve been working on?”

Each slick, warm twist of Dorian’s wrist was a loss of Solas’ concentration, mind, and soul. He spread his legs further apart, lest his lightly bouncing balls rub raw against the rope wrapped around his thighs. He shifted forward on the chair, restrained by the rope pulling his wrists. He was unable to thrust because of the ropes holding him to the chair. He felt the carnal want rising up in him, unburied by Dorian’s touch. He fought against it, determined to win this volley.

“ _Mff._ Are…?” he tried, then started again, frowning in concentration even as Dorian’s hand worked him harder. “You aren’t bathing the crystals. You’re - _fenedhis_ \- the fourth treaty covers the dislocation of the Veil to… to…”

“Come now, Solas, focus, this your favorite topic of discussion. I’ve really given you all the advantage tonight.”

“Ass. Dislocating to create metaphysical pools of energy directly from the Fade but - _ah!_ \- but Veminloc was chasing mad theories at that age, addicted to lotus snuff, the Veil cannot be manipulated in that way. _Oh f-fuck..._ ”

“Couldn’t.”

“ _Ohh yes._ Wait,” Solas opened his eyes and looked over at Dorian, ceasing to tremble under his touch. “What do you mean by that?”

“My experiments!”

Dorian was beaming. His fist rested on Solas’ cock, light.

“You’ve no guess, truly?” he asked, sounding almost hurt.

“You,” Solas asked, “how would you discover such a way to affect the Veil?” He was incredulous. His hips occasionally twitched as Dorian lazily caressed his length, but his mind was otherwise occupied by the discovery Dorian could have made.

“Your books,” Dorian answered simply. “The ones you always reference when we quarrel about such things. I stole them from your desk, one at a time. Really, do you keep track of _anything?_ I read them, and remembered Veminloc’s treaties, and I realized that there was perhaps a way to do the thing which had not been tried before.”

Solas was speechless, and it showed. He knew it showed. But he could not obscure the baffled shock he felt that a human mage, from Tevinter no less, would have managed to reinvent the means by which crystals could be charged for use in supplementing the disposition of mana fields. How had he done it? How had Solas not noticed? _Where_ had he been experimenting?

“You read my books?” he asked in confusion, and Dorian laughed.

“Of course I read them! Dull as dirt, as they say, too. Kin enough to you, all those stuffy traditionalist southern mage screeds, ‘enlightenment’ this and ‘subdued use of magic’ that.” He grinned. “So it seems I’ve managed to rout you on this topic of debate and -” Dorian wrapped his fist fully around the base of Solas’ length, commanding an impressive, vigorous moan out of the restrained man’s throat as he resumed rhythmically fucking his cock with his palm. “And I’ve got you quite flustered over that, haven’t I?” Dorian crossed his legs and rested his head playfully on his free hand, ignoring his own considerable arousal grousing for its turn.

“Not quite,” Solas groaned. He felt a rise of sweat dripping down his head and chest. He fought to keep his mind clear, moaning and letting his head drop back, then gasping. He argued, finally, “You’ve got no business,” he cursed as Dorian’s fingers twisted around his tip, “charging _anything_ with Blight magic.”

“Once again,” Dorian crooned, “you’re missing the _point._ ” He punctuated the word with a sudden sharp flick against Solas’ testes. Solas convulsed and gasped, whispering something that could have been a plea under his breath.

“I’m listening,” Solas managed to choke, his voice cracking on the pain lancing up into his stomach.

“Oh good. Because I have been conducting this research solely to try and understand how Samson might be buffing the suits of armor for his seemingly unending army of corrupted Templars. And you know what I’ve found?” Solas didn’t answer, the sound of blood in his ears slowly subsiding and the gratifying pulse of pain in his groin being overtaken, once again, by mindless lust. Dorian continued excitedly, “I can warp the Veil to charge the crystals. But if I try to charge the crystals with the signature of red lyrium - just the frequency mind, nothing more - the Veil just _thickens._ ”

Dorian paused and his lip curled when he smiled, the triumph of this revelation like a playful wisp in his eyes, and Solas remembered with a harsh slap why this Tevinter mage, of all who might have drawn his attention away from the Fade, why this _human_ man never ceased to surprise him. Why his heart flipped every time he heard Dorian descending the stone steps to ramble on about some esoteric field of study, only ever written on by two or three scholars in all of known history. Solas remembered the first time he had leaned over a text and had pushed Dorian’s hand away from a citation: the heat of Dorian’s hand, the way his whole body had tensed, how good the touch had felt after centuries of retreat. His hand had lingered. Dorian had not moved; for once, he’d had no pithy dart, and as the moment had stretched, the silence in the rotunda had grown; they’d been arguing, though in that moment, with his heart pounding, Solas hadn’t remembered what about.

_Fenedhis._

“I cede,” Solas chuckled easily, covering his alarm and pressing his hips meaningfully towards Dorian’s idle hand. “You’ve outwitted me there. For the Veil to thicken in this circumstance, when all other manipulations weaken its hold, appears to be quite the mystery.” And before Dorian could really hear the phrasing of his submission, or could press his failure of curiosity, Solas looked straight into Dorian’s eyes. Truthfully and earnestly, letting how much he was impressed warm his voice to smooth honey, he said, “You’re so handsome.”

Dorian’s grin broke wider and his fingers fiddled with the oil-shined rings on his hand. “Big talk.”

Solas smirked and pressed his hips, as much as he could while restrained, towards Dorian’s touch. “Not the only thing.”

“Oh for -” Dorian snorted and rolled his eyes, pulling away from the needy press. Yet he was beaming so widely he could hardly contain his joy, pleased with himself, really.

Then Solas caught his gaze again and dipped his head in that sweet way and said, “And you are brilliant. I hold you in the highest esteem. You’ve won your victory well; I am happy to yield to you.” His smile turned almost sad, and Dorian, with a regretful pang, recognized something of himself in that moment - something he wished, very much, to be able touch and smooth and lovingly kiss away. Solas said, “I am yours, for as long as you will have me. You are sublime, _vhenan._ ”

Dorian allowed himself, for just a moment, to let this feeling, the one he really only ever found here, with Solas, take over: validation, seen, heard, and cherished. It almost banished the terrible pain of the day from his thoughts, almost freed him to enjoy his lover, to just be here, and be _happy,_ for once.

“Is it a bit stuffy in here?” He stood and walked to the shutters. He pushed them open, letting the last of the daylight into the room with the summery smell of blooming. He looked down from their high room at the sleepy street below, at the empty stalls where all the vendors had gone home. He looked out at where the road winded out of Redcliffe, at the flowers dipping and waving in the gardens outside each little hut: common grace, sunflowers, bluebells, dahlias, and bright carnations.

He turned away.

Solas was looking at him like he held the world together with a thought, his smile strange and bright and filled with.... _Care,_ Dorian told his flipping heart, _it’s only great care. Perhaps even admiration, little though I truly deserve it. Fooled another. How long can this last? Although... why shouldn’t I be looked at, that way, by someone… by someone dear? Why not?_

“Now,” Dorian cleared his throat and paced slowly back across the room, taking his seat again, “let’s see. For your loss, I’m fairly certain I’m within my rights to assign some sort of sanction. Let us say, you are not allowed to come until I say so, hm?”

Solas eyed him guardedly, squirming in the ropes. Dorian watched this display: Solas’ cock waving from side to side, balls bobbing, his lean body struggling, defiant dignity still hot in his eyes. “And how long,” Solas challenged, “will that be?”

Dorian grinned and reached into his pocket, opening the little tin. He amassed more of the oil into his palm, scraped his seat closer across the wooden floor, and leaned forward. “Cheeky. I’ve not yet decided.”

**Author's Note:**

> I commissioned a gif by [@nsfwfrosch](https://nsfwfrosch.tumblr.com) to accompany this piece for Sub Solas Week. ^.^ [Link here](https://nsfwfrosch.tumblr.com/post/163494088767/submissive-solas-for-tel-abelas-mofoworks-fine).


End file.
